Ch. 2: The Bell and the Forest
(Return to Arheled) Chapter TWO THE BELL AND THE FOREST Rain swept down from the chill sky as Forest got out of the car. “I’ll pick you up in a couple hours, hon! Don’t forget.” his mom called as he shut the door. He waved a little when she backed the car around, so she wouldn’t be worried, and hurried into the alcove. The upper story overhung a deep recess in the lower, where the back entry was located, and there was a bench where the Library Gang hung out in better weather. Forest pulled the door open and headed inside. There was an entrance room with a bulletin board and glass doors leading into the main library. Inside to the right was an aisle leading by a book sale—mostly those romance novels with horrid gaudy covers that Mom always liked—to the elevator and the side door. On the left was the slide-out table where you put returned books, and then the front desk. It was impossible to get in without being seen by the librarian on duty there, but today it was the younger one with the blank blue eyes and nice round smile, who always seemed to wear colorful dresses. So he didn’t duck out the side door and climb the back stairs, but headed quickly past the front desk. She glanced up from a heap of books she was checking in and gave him one of her perpetual bright smiles, and forgot him the next second. Which was fine by him. The Beardsley Memorial Library had a peculiar charm to it. High ceilings with funny raised patterns on the white beams. Big globe-lamp chandeliers and old ceiling fans. Golden-brown paneling that ran around the walls’ lower half and ornamental woodwork edging doors and frames. It had the appearance, not so much of a library, but of a retrofitted mansion. A beautiful staircase faced the front desk, carved railings and wainscot running beside it. Forest went into the reading room on the left of the main hall—the adult fiction shelves were in an ancient crowded chamber on the right, shelves reaching the ceiling—and stood there for a moment, relishing the odd atmosphere it had. Something about the tall windows and magazine shelves, the tables, the plush brown armchairs that gasped when you sat on them, the unused fireplace, the painting of redwoods above a mountain lake amid great tattered mountains that hung above it, reminded him of G,K, Chesterton and reading clubs. It was the sort of place a great writer might have chosen to write his books in. He wanted to stay there and gaze at the tall painted pines and floating cloud-mountains, but adults used this room and he didn’t care to linger. Children were supposed to go upstairs. He clomped up the carpeted stairs. The “youth room” with its’ lower ceiling, few shelves and long white overhead lights, echoed suddenly with Julian’s clear but high laughter and Martin’s low voice. Forest paused at the head of the stairs. Here a balcony ringed the stairwell on the left, while a door on the right opened to the children’s room. The teen room was just off the balcony. Three tall windows faced the head of the stairs, and a broad seat with red and yellow cushions lay under them, and Forest knelt on this and gazed out at the weather. This was one of his favorite places. The Library Gang, as he had come to think of the group of regulars that haunted the library, usually clustered around the big old computers in their cubicles, playing video games and insulting each other on Facebook and occasionally playing rock music when the librarian wasn’t around. Forest pressed his nose against the window, leaving another greasy smudge to join the five or six already there, and looked dreamily out over the western fringe of Winsted. Grey rain drifted down from an October sky. Across the road and past the tire yard a maple glowed beneath Christ Church, such a lovely blend of orange and yellow and so deep and shadowy a color, like peaches in the wet air. Next to it was a tree the color of cranberry juice. The chestnut in the little triangle that Spencer Hill Rd made where it forked as it met Main St, between the church and the library, was losing its’ leaves, so thin and scanty and yellowy-green. The old stone church rose grey against the grey sky, slate roofs gleaming silver behind the trees, the steeple rising like a tower. The belfry drew his eyes, as always, the columns of stacked grey stone upholding arches built of round slabs of that reddish rock like tomato slices glued on end. A trellis of red rock fenced the floor of each huge opening like a railing, and an odd metal wheel (presumably for turning the bell) visible behind it. Above it the steeple ended in a cone of slates gleaming with rain, and curious designs were set in the top course of grey stone, long sticks of that odd red rock like upside-down mallets swinging from the rim. He glanced down at the gas station on the other side of Main and wished he could see the river. It must be running really high right now. After a while he remembered he was supposed to be studying, and he went reluctantly over to the stairs and pattered down them. The building was bisected by a high hallway, the reading room on one side, a round arch above the angle where the desk and offices of other librarians was buttonholed. The young librarian at the front desk was looking up something in the computer, but when he muttered “Um…” she looked over and saw him. She had gold hair falling in ringlets about her ears and wore a nice pale blue dress bunched under the bosom. “Yes, can I help you?” she said brightly. “Um, yeah, where do they have the books on….mummy stuff….I mean, pyramids, um…Egyptian, I mean?” He felt like an idiot. “Right downstairs in the History Room.” she said. “You wander around until you find the break room and water fountain by the bathrooms, and the History Room’s right across from them.” “Um, thanks.” said Forest, and hurried off before he could say anything else stupid. The back stairs were plain, modern and utterly boring. Red rubberized flooring, school doors shutting off the stairwell, tan and white walls. But when he reached the bottom the place was transformed. Stone walls covered with thick layers of white paint jutted out here, there and everywhere, turning the basement into a delightful rabbit warren of passageways and rooms. At the bottom of the stair you turned left and found yourself facing what Forest called the “jailer’s cell”, a glass-walled office full of books where a librarian watched the stairs. A crooked dead-end passage ran off to the left, just before the “cell”, where the elevator came out, and past that were only locked tan doors. Then you went right down a little ramp past the “cell” and into a loop passage that went in a big square to meet itself at the office. If you turned left you would bend an elbow right and pass the two doors of a masonry-walled conference room on your left, where movies were sometimes shown. On the right was a stair to the old front entrance directly underneath the front staircase, where the doors off the street were much more decorative. Then you made another square right turn, where a long bench occupies the left wall. In about 20 feet you would make another right and pass the drinking fountain and bathrooms (tan doors, always tan) with the History Room door on your left. At the last right elbow turn is the librarians’ break room, and then you’re back at the office feeling a little dizzy. Forest always felt a queer pleasant jolt when he went around this and realized he was back where he’d started. Random bookshelves were stuck all along the walls of the passages wherever there was room. Forest went into the history room. It had four low round overhead lamps, a lone computer (not Internet) and two tables, as well as several low bookshelves. Pulling down a couple of books he sighed gloomily. Why he hated Egyptian stuff so much he didn’t know, but he did. Naturally the assignment had been about Egypt. He would have suspected his teacher of doing it on purpose, but he was pretty sure she didn’t know he existed. Putting the books on the table he opened one and rested his chin on his hands, gazing blankly at the page. Names and ancient events paced sedately before his eyes. He read the same sentence three or four times without absorbing the meaning, for an image was egging his mind and would not give up. He lifted his eyes from the book and stared absently at the painted brick wall opposite him as he realized that something about the Tree he had never been able to pin down. That gold sheen, very faint, on the leaves and petals and trunk of one side—it was a reflection. There was another source of light, but it had been out of the picture in his dreams, off to the side. The man gazing back into his eyes nodded solemnly, as if approving a belated guess. Forest crashed into reality with a jump. He hadn’t heard anyone come in, and yet sitting across the table from him was a man of eccentric appearance. His face had a peaked, wizened look to it, but a second look convinced Forest the man was actually not at all old. Beard stubble dirtied his odd face. He had bright, peculiar eyes, a blue like winter sky fading into amber-hazel around the pupils. A brown leather coat, very wrinkled and worn, was pulled close about him. His hair was dark, but Forest’s artistic eyes realized immediately the shade was one he had never seen in human hair, only in the trunks of fallen trees in deep mossy forests: a dark brown/dark green that defied reproduction. He guessed that even if he blended all his browns and pine-greens he would never hit that hue. “Sorry.” said Forest, suddenly aware he was staring. “Didn’t—um, hear you come in.” “Don’t let me be your disturbance, please.” the stranger said, waving him back to a seat. “Sit, sit, sit. Deep in study or deep in a study?” “Um, I don’t know.” said Forest. The stranger sighed. “A brown study.” he said patiently. “Defined as a state of studious abstraction due to thinking pretty hard about something else. I’ll wager it had something to do with trees.” “Only one Tree.” said Forest. “The one you dream about? The silver laurel all in white? That one?” “Uh-huh. But there’s, a, something out of place…on the side of it, it’s like a glow…” “Gold?” the stranger said. The peculiar eyes were sparkling with an odd light. sympathetic and somehow akin. Dizzily Forest realized the man was understanding him, he could speak the language the boy’s thoughts spoke. “You’ve seen it, too, you’ve seen it?” he spluttered. “Easy, lad, breathe in, breathe out.” the man drawled. “Course I’ve seen it. And more than it, Forest. Aye, far more than it.” His eyes distanced as a sudden well of vast age and memory yawned in them for a moment, and then closed as he refocused on the boy. “Then what is it? The glow?” said Forest. “Another Tree, of course.” the stranger said gently. Forest leaned back against his chair. The grey table under him was invisible. The room was invisible. All Forest saw was the Tree, the thing he had dreamed of for so long; he beheld it again in his mind and examined that reflection, that glow that spoke of yet Another tree. One had been overwhelming; that there could be Two was a thought staggering beyond comprehension. “Forest?” his mom’s voice echoed faintly down to him. “Wake up, sweetheart! I’m here to take you home, remember? Did you get your studying done? Did you even open the book??” Forest blinked and looked around. His bottom really hurt, and that meant he’d been sitting on those hard chairs for an hour or two. He and his mom were alone in the little room. He got up stiffly and lurched out into the hall, peering around. No one. “Honey, are you all right? You there at all? Hello in there?” his mom was saying in some far-off distance. “He’s gone.” said Forest dismally. He didn’t respond to his mom’s ceaseless chatter as she herded him up the stairs and along the hall. The young librarian looked up with a bright smile and said “Oh, you found him! Have a good day!” as they went by. The rain had stopped and Forest was surprised to see that it was nearly dark. “Are you all right, dear?” The anxiety level in her tone was beginning to approach danger point; Forest thought desperately and said, “I was thinking, I guess.” His mom, relieved to hear him speak, began asking him what he was thinking about. Draw him out, encourage him to talk, the psychologist had told her. “I was thinking about the Tree.” said Forest. “Tree. We never should have named you Forest; that’s probably what made you get like this. Sometimes I’m worried about you, honey. What was so absorbing about this tree, anyway?” “There are Two of them.” he said. “Two? Do they have fall colors on them? Are they big trees?” “They—glow.” He had not meant that at all; but how do you describe a tree that grows light? “Oh. Well, that’s nice; at least they’re not big scary trees like in the horror movies, those used to give me nightmares with the skulls on them and all, and Cornie would just laugh and drink it all in while I clung to him and couldn’t look…” She fell silent, and they drove along the lake in silence, each wrapped in their own thoughts. Forest and his mom had some difficulty parking the car near their church, as they were barely on time and the parking lot and streets nearby were occupied. Mrs. Lake drove around a little before deciding to just park on Main St. and walk. As he always did, Forest admired the outside of the First Church of Christ, located about a hundred yards north of the library at the corner of Main and Spencer Hill Rd. Squat and strong like a fortress, the tall steeple rising above the front doors, the round arches and narrow columns of the belfry, the rambling castle-like architecture of the remainder with the secondary tower on the right, which had no bells in its’ open arches, the peaked roofs in all directions, and the little balcony-tower on the left: the sandstone trim contrasting nicely with they grey granite. He reached ahead of his mom and opened the blue wooden door for her; she hadn’t taught him to do that, it was something he learned from old books. It always made his mom look pink and happy, so Forest liked to do it. The vestibule had a carpet fern pattern, pale green-white ferns on reddish-purple. Windows let in a flood of white sunlight and it was always bright here. A potted fern stood in one corner and Forest remembered how he had asked his mom how it lived without any water and his mom explaining it was artificial. The doors were tall and square, with red and purple stained glass panels. The ceiling was white, offset by dark brown wainscot and trim. Curving narrow stairs on the left led up to the gallery and down to subterranean depths. Mom was laughing at some joke the pastor was making and her high laugh bounced upon the walls. Forest felt glad. Mom laughed a lot more now, but there had been a time—long ago, maybe three whole years—when she hadn’t laughed at all. Dad had gone, and he took all her laughter with him. Finally Mom got done chatting and the pastor had embarrassed him as usual by talking to him like a little kid and they could go in and find a seat. The semicircular nave was already nearly full; the congregation numbered about a hundred, twelve or thirteen of which were pretty young girls in tawdry jean wear. There were several families with young children. Most of the worshippers were middle-aged, with only about a fifth being old. They were dressed in a wide range from ordinary Sunday to casual; some of the old men wore suits. Forest saw the two servers for the week—Melissa and Glen it looked like, but they looked so different in their blue cassocks—come down the main aisle and light the candles. He paid little attention: something was nagging at him, something important he had to remember. It had been bothering him all morning. After the Bible reading and responses, they sat down at last. Forest gazed up at the glass chandelier. The light bulbs radiated out from it in a most extraordinary way, like stars. He looked over at the high partitions on the right side of the sanctuary, great sliding walls of wood and glass panel. The glass was a cloudy white lined with green, and somehow it always made him think of fishwater. He remembered his old fancy that the room behind was an aquarium full of water, and when they slid back the panels that a flood of cloudy water and strange heraldic stained-glass fish would pour out and fill the sloping nave like a bowl. Pouring water. Stars. Pouring, rushing water. Distant. Far-off. Like a flash it came back to him, the dream he had last night, forgotten when he awoke though he dimly knew he had to remember something. Church and pastor faded out around him. The ancient ragged grey farmhouse stood at the height of the great valley. Time-stained, if it had ever been painted the color had long since departed to the land of ghosts. Forest stood with the strange house on his left, gazing out over the valley. Immense, beautiful, like a mighty gulf in the earth, the house stood at its’ crest. Steep rolling fields and orchard swelled downward in a broad plunging ridge, to a forested floor where the river flowed; and sudden shot up the opposite wall, precipitous and sheer, its’ crest on a level with his eyes. The valley head was rounded and distant, and down every section of it tumbled a broad waterfall. Intricate with distance, half concealed by trees, thin lacey cataracts tumbled down the high cliffs, a forest of pine fringing the valley and filling the floor and marching up on the right. Hemlock mingled with pine, vivid, intricate green and brown; but those were the only colors, for the view beyond could not be seen, save for dim and misty shapes of blue and whiteish-grey. '' '' Forest turned to the house. It was perched on supports—whether masonry or beams he could never remember—where the ground sloped on the far side; on this side was a porch of ancient wood facing them, for he was not alone, another was with him, but Forest was only aware of him as a vague presence, half-heeded and ignored, as invisible to him as he was to others. Arheled was sitting on the porch in an old chair, for he lived there; he looked stocky, even uncouth, a rough-looking old man in clothes worn so long by hard work that they too were rough as split wood. He had a quiet voice and strange, powerful eyes. Yet somehow Forest felt he was…it was hard, even in his dream, to articulate, but he seemed more than what Forest saw. '' '' “The Daslenga flows everlastingly, for angry is he that he cannot depart, nor can he flow as he was wont, lest he dry up as all outside here has.” said Arheled . '' '' Forest had a dim impression of saying something, but for the life of him what he said he could never bring back to mind. '' '' “The Falls has been in past Silver Falls.” Arheled answered. “At the bottom of the torrent is the Silver Falls Basin, from which the Gods dipped great pitchers when they went to make the Stars.” '' '' He had been here before, he knew, even in his dream. If it had been a dream, for it had an uncanny clarity like real things, the roar of the far falls, the great pines some way off to the left, the level bare forest behind him out of which he had come, must have come. He wanted to write down the things that Arheled was saying, but he couldn’t. Third time I’ve been here and I still haven’t brought writing materials, he thought, exasperated. '' '' “You came not that way but this.” Arheled pointed. '' '' He was indicating the right-hand side of the gulf valley. Here the pine forest came up closer to the house though still some way below, and among the pines flowed the river from the falls. The house was in some way near to a long narrow old gravel road through the wild. He had a sense of wild country stretching leagues uncountable in every direction. The road was difficult to study, to see where it came from or where it went; sometimes during the mysterious conversation it seemed to follow the river down toward the falls, sometimes it ran at the very door of the old grey house, right behind him as he stood facing the porch. '' '' “Where does the road come from?” said Forest, even as the other said, “Where does it go?” '' '' “Where does it come from and where does it go, why does it wander and where does it show. It comes from the mountains, Forest. It goes where it must, Ronmond. I can steer and I can call, but the road is itself, and I cannot unsay it.” '' '' “But what IS the road?” said the other. Forest turned in horror, lest his question draw down anger, and saw Ronmond: a sharp intense face like the edge of a blade, burning to know the things that no one can know nor has any right to know. But Arheled was not angry. He began to speak, and as he spoke his voice grew, rising like a chant. '' '' “There was a man of double deed, '' '' Who sowed his garden full of weed….” '' '' '' '' Ronmond stared at the uncouth figure, blank dismay and a sort of despair in his eyes. '' '' “When the weed began to blow ‘twas like a field full of snow, '' '' When the snow began to melt, ‘twas like a ship without a belt…” '' '' '' '' The old man’s voice was grown as great as the sea, and it seemed the sound of storms innumerable were gathered up in it. '' '' '' '' “When the ship began to sail twas like a bird without a tail, '' '' When the bird began to fly twas like an eagle in the sky, '' '' When the sky began to roar twas like the Herald at my door, '' '' When the door began to crack, twas like a hammer on my back….” '' '' '' '' Arheled stood upon his porch and thistledown flew like snow past his ears as the wind crashed about him, and still his voice roared, '' '' '' '' “When my back began to smart twas like an arrow in the stars, '' '' When the stars began to flee then did my heart begin to bleed, '' '' When my heart began to bleed, then twas death and death and death indeed…” '' '' '' '' And the wind had filled Forest and the wind had whirled Forest away, off into another tangle of dreams, but always running through them was that terrible crack of the heavens breaking like a twig……….. '' '' '' Mom was shaking him. They had finished singing the sending song. She was saying something about cookies in the coffee room, and he came back to the church around him with a dazed feeling of disorientation, as if he had fallen asleep again in the pew. He ate cookies and enormous, gooey, thick roses of frosting on the Halloween cake with a certain abstraction. He was remembering the dream. Who was Arheled? What was the Road? Mrs. Lake sat up with a sudden gasp. The sound that woke her came again, rising above the moan of wind: wild, desperate bawling, coming from Forest’s room. Clutching her nightgown she dashed up the stairs and into his bedroom. Forest was sitting up in bed, knees drawn to his chest and his head buried in them, wailing as if his heart would break. “Forest! Forest, dear, what is it? What’s wrong? Did you have a bad dream?” she babbled, sitting beside him and trying to comfort him. Seeing her unemotional 15-year-old boy in this state was alarming beyond compare. Forest lifted his head. In the fitful moonlight his eyes gleamed huge and wet and agonized. “I saw them.” he choked. “In my sleep. I saw both of them.” “Both of what? Tell me about it, honey, and maybe you’ll feel better.” Forest’s eyes, wide with anguish, bored into hers. He drew several great shuddering breaths. “I saw the Two Trees.” he managed at last to say. “Gold. One was yellow. One was silver. They grew light. They dripped it. They lit the land.” “But, honey, what happened?” Forest began to sob again. '' “Darkness bit them.” his voice came out of his tears, suddenly rough and terrible. “It’s rider stabbed them, and darkness sucked them…They are dead….The Gods themselves are weeping…” Chrissy Lake, mother, divorcee, party girl and working mom, felt all of this drop off and fade to an immeasurable distance, and she was alone in the darkness, with no defenses, a frightened little girl of thirty-one. The dreadful words of her weeping boy hung in the air like a life of their own, in the dark air, and the rider of the darkness looked at her and laughed. The shrivelled stems of two dead Trees hung before her mind and would not leave. She clutched Forest to her, not as a mother giving comfort but as if he were somehow the one who was stronger. He was no longer crying. She began to shiver, helplessly. Her son put an arm around her back. “It’s okay, Mommy.” Forest said gently. The frightening roughness was gone from his voice, but he seemed suddenly older, as if he were the father and she the one who had woken up with a nightmare. “It was a dream. It happened long ago, and it’s over now. You don’t have to be scared.” And Mrs. Lake was the one who was now crying, as she held her strange old son close to her in the weird night. Forest walked upon his island and gazed out at the lake. He was supposed to be doing his homework, but Indian Summer had come—late—and it was just way too nice out. Julian and the others would probably be playing or hanging out in the park or something, but Forest had no friends to play with. People didn’t notice him much; he was the sort of kid that would ordinarily get picked on by bullies, except for the odd fact that his pale hair and thin face rendered him so nondescript he could pass along an empty hall and not be observed. It was an attribute he put to frequent use. The brown house stood on a small island halfway down Highland Lake. Part of it had a log-cabin facing; all of it was brown. Forest rounded the corner and paused at the big oak outside his window. It glowed a sort of bronze-russet, and the boy smiled as he gazed at the color. The island shore curved tightly around the end of the house, bending left as he faced the wide southern expanse of lake. Some tattered blue spruce grew on the right, beside the gravel parking area. He glanced at the big sliding doors leading to the living room, right under his window in the end of the house, and wondered if he’d unlocked them. Probably not. Forest paced out onto the dock, high and dry above the rocks. The lake had been drawn down for the winter, dropping about 4 feet and exposing the rocks on that side, as well as the pyramidal concrete base of the dock. The floating section was drawn up to the shore under the barn out by the road. He sat down under the oak. The lawn was mostly hard moss and not very comfortable, even without the pavement of acorns. The “gwirlies” as Forest had called the squirrels when he was five, would have a feast this year. He stared out over the lake for a while. After the broad head of it’s northern end, First Bay, Highland Lake narrowed, opening out into a triangular cove, then narrowed still further as it passed his island and broadened out into the huge reach of Second Bay. At the far side he could see the Big Island jutting out, masted with spiky pines, and rising above it the low cone of Platt Hill. Third Bay lay beyond it: the southern end of the Lake. When his father had been here, he used to take Forest and Mom in the old green motorboat up and down the lake. Now the boat sat on its’ trailer in the cramped parking area, tarped, unused for years. Forest jerked his head away from the Big Island, trying to put it away. Trying to forget. Summer Rock on the other side of the Narrows met his eyes. It was only a couple hundred feet or so away. He called it that because whoever lived in the cabin behind it had painted in huge balloon letters CARELESS SUMMER and in a white circle farther over SUMMR FOREVER at a much later date. The balloon letters were painted a lovely red, yellow and green. Like apples. On the big slope of stone it looked quite beautiful. Lacy green hemlocks grew around it like a frame. Now that the lake was down you could see the reef of big rocks that ran out from the southern end. Forest got up and headed around the house. The house had a barn-like roof on the east side, the side away from the road, facing the Narrows. It came down right to the ground and moss grew on the shingles. A peaked gable-end jutted from this roof, two stories high. A long low wing ran on past this, giving the house a lopsided T shape with a very short leg: it was this wing that had the log-siding. Dad had been about to do the roof when he left, and the two long ladders still leaned against the gable-end and what Mom called the “ground-roof”. This side of the island Forest had named the Pine Alley, due to the fringe of tall young conifers running along the sea-wall that protected the east and north shores. He walked behind them, smiling up at them: each one he had climbed many times, and each held favorite perches and “points” to sit on. The blue spruce with no low branches. The white pine. The silvery olive-bush with its’ huge clusters of puckery red berries. The two green spruces where the wall rose like a rim, at the corner where the shore bent west. There was a gap in the wall. The rim was higher after the gap, where it turned the corner; it always felt like a ship’s prow. Above it the spindly spruce had finally given up the ghost, and now bore only a triangle of rusty brown needles at its’ crown. The thin spruce next, around the corner, looked ready to follow. The air was very warm and soft. There was hardly a breeze. Forest climbed into the small maple past the thin spruce. It had lost its’ orange and red leaves two days ago and now was bare as winter. Several more trees along the north shore: a small blue spruce, the green spruce he’d thought was a Norway until Dad taught him otherwise (“That’s a white spruce, not a Norway spruce; Norways weep”), the white pine with the birch growing through it. Then came the steps in the sea-wall leading down to the water. There a sloping shelf of stone ran out, from just underwater to almost four feet deep, and there a huge stone rose up right out of the lake. When he was a kid Forest had loved to jump off it. The water was down farther than usual: the entire rock lay dry, banded with the water-mark near the crown. The lake ran inward in a small bay, rocks jutting up from the lowered water, until the shallow strait cutting his island from the land. The strait was dry now, a slope of leaf-paved mud, and the island was no longer a true island. Forest passed the steps built into the sea-wall and hopped up onto the Split Rock Point. He was past the house’s narrow north end now. The shore turned left and receded south, and where it turned, the wall was interrupted by a high egg-shaped rock, cloven in two. It was almost as high as Forest. Beyond it the sea-wall ran on in a curve, out to the stonework of the covered bridge. There were some bushes and small trees growing wild around the Rock. The bridge had solid sides to waist-height; the rest was open, crossed by vertical wood bars like intersecting X’s. It was about 15 feet long. After it was a short drive to the street, a forsythia on the right and a larch on the left overhanging the old barn that stood by the street. It had been red, once, but the sides were faded and moss grew on the shingles. Not a very big island, thought Forest critically. Two hundred and fifty feet at best from one end to the other, north to south that is; much less across. But he liked it small. One time long ago, before Dad left, the people from the Big Island used to come over here. Forest had crouched in his room wide-eyed and listening as his dad and mom drank beers under the oak with the couple from Big Island. They had a boy, but he was usually at soccer or something. Even at that age Forest had realized these people looked down at his parents. The lady was gold-haired and really pretty, prettier than Mom, but she looked—bad. Sort of well-bred nasty. The man was big and jovial and Forest had hated him instantly. He lay there, listening to Mr. Mwaha and Mrs. Sneer, as he christened them, saying meaningless little grown-up things. Things that sounded all right, but under them were the things they were really saying; and those things had a faint bite. Like poison. Mom and Dad’s laughter had sounded a bit forced. Forest couldn’t understand why they kept coming over. Especially Mrs. Sneer. She only seemed to sneer at Mom, though. Why didn’t Dad make them go away? It was around then that Mom and Dad had started to yell at each other. Forest was only nine then but he knew it was because of the Nasties of Big Island that they yelled. Quite often that summer they treated the Lakes to rides in their big flashy boat with the powerful motor; but Dad especially. Forest found the huge boat’s speed and power terrifying, and being condescended to by the Nasties’ boy didn’t help. Mom’s little red Honda came crunching up the gravel drive, and then the tires rumbled hollow in the bridge and then gravel crunched again. Mom parked beside the boat in the little parking area behind the sea-wall steps and Split Rock, and Forest slid resignedly off the rock and went over to close the gate. “I’m home, darling!” Mom laughed as she swung out of the car. “Help me take in the groceries, OK? There’s ice cream in one bag!” “Kinda the wrong season.” said Forest as he emerged from the covered bridge. A chain-link fence gate blocked the far end and had to be opened and shut whenever Mom went anywhere. Forest always kept it open when he came from school so Mom could just pull in when she got out of work. He hefted both bags at once, secretly pleased at the developing muscles in his arms, and headed for the house. “Yeah, but it’s so hot out and you need a treat, don’t you, after last night and all that. I need one, too, for that matter. Am I glad to be back!” “Hard day?” said Forest. He really just wanted to be silent and let Mom jabber, but he knew she liked it when he asked about her day. She was a history teacher. “Oh, you have no idea. Those kids can be such a pain, you know they need a good smacking but if you so much as raise your voice they complain and they whine and then suddenly the principal is talking gravely to you about how you need to be more inclusive and understanding. Ugh! The problem is the parents need a good whack on the bottom themselves and they’ve raised their kids to be sissies and wimps like they are—but who’s going to whack a parent?” Forest found the ice cream and uncapped it. Strawberry swirl. '' Mmmmm.'' He got the scooper and a plate and scooped two heaping scoops onto it. “Forest, good heavens, you’ll get sick if you eat that much…” Forest plunked the plate in front of her. “Eat.” he said. Mom giggled and put her hands over her face. “I have to watch my calories!” she laughed. “I can’t eat all this!” “You won’t have to get seconds.” Forest said. He shoved a spoon into her ice cream and started trying to shovel it into her mouth. “Start eating.” “Oh, you’re such a sweetie.” Mom said, going pink. She took the spoon and smiled. “Since you insist.” Forest got some more for himself. Two heaping scoops more, in fact. His mom was halfway through her second scoop when they heard the doorbell ring. “That’s weird.” she said. “That bell hasn’t been working for two years. Maybe a circuit faulted.” She sighed as she got up. “I wish your father was here. He used to know so much about things like that.” She walked toward the door. “I hope it’s not that creepy homeless man I’ve seen wandering along the shore road, looking for a job or something, probably, I really couldn’t bear to have him here all the time and I’m sure I’d hurt his feelings because I never can hide it when I don’t like someone.” She peered out the window, but no one was at the door. She opened it and tried the doorbell, but it was as dead as ever. Forest went outside and looked around. No one. “Maybe you scared him away.” he said. “Oh, Forest, honey, don’t be absurd! There was nobody here. Where could he have gone, hmm? It’s an old bell and probably something shorted inside it.” Indian Summer left as quick as it came. Forest woke up the next morning and was greeted by the sight of grey, cold clouds scudding through the half-bare branches of the oak outside his window. The lake was a cold grey-white and rumpled; an intermittent wind was blowing. Forest shivered and pulled the covers closer: the air in the room was very cold because Mom hadn’t turned on the furnace as last night was so mild. He shrugged. At least it was Saturday. He ate corn flakes in bed while reading Garth Nix’s The 7th Tower books. They were really good; there was a simple sort of brilliance in the imagery, like jewels, or stained glass. The only thing he didn’t like was the '' rushed'' feel of the narrative and the constant overuse of cliffhangers. Cliffhangers were annoying. But after only a few pages beyond the end of his bowl of cereal, Forest found himself losing concentration. This was, after all, the third time he’d read the series. He tossed the book aside and got up. What he really wanted was to climb the mountain across the road; a sudden desire to see the deep old greens of that forest was coming upon him. He dressed warmly; it felt like it was going to be cold. Mrs. Lake was still asleep, as her closed door testified, so Forest got his coat and hat very quietly and scrawled on the bathroom-door marker board, GONE UP MT. LOVE, F. He had forced himself to make a habit of leaving messages when his odd urge to enter the woods took him, after a few disastrous scenarios of very worried Mom. Now it came second nature. Mrs. Lake knew perfectly well what MT meant, as he went there most often, so he didn’t need to specify. He was right about the cold. A raw late October wind blew in stiff gusts from the south, making him think briefly about going back for his gloves. But he knew he’d only be taking them off during his climb and probably losing them into the bargain, and besides the exertion would warm him up. He walked across the covered bridge and opened the chain-link gate, leaving it open in case Mom had to go somewhere. He passed the old red barn and crossed the shore road. On the far side he had to cross the Henriques’ rising yard—they had the rambling little brown house right under the mountain, but they’d long ago given him permission, as yards shut off the mountain in both directions along the road. True, you could cross the camp cabins down the road as they were empty for the winter, or you could climb the worst cliff in the world over by the Ugly-house in the other direction, where the mountain rose right up from the road. He’d done that a couple times before the Henriques gave him leave to cross, and for a boy of ten that was a daunting feat. A crazy little shed covered with irrelevant and random signs stood on the floor of what had obviously been an ancient cabin. Only the stone chimney remained, rising incongruously behind the shed. The Henriques had barbecues there in summer. Forest passed it by and began the long hard scramble. The western shore of Highland Lake is bounded by a sheer edge of land, where the highlands of Winchester drop in broken walls and rolling vertical slopes over two hundred feet to the shore road. Opposite his island was a stack of great piled rocks, grey-blue litchened chunks the size of cars or boats, as well as a few sheer faces of bare mountain. Forest knew every inch of the rocks and the delightful miniature caves in them, and did not pause. Higher up the golden-brown and yellow of beech and tall oak gave way to tall snarled hemlocks, rising like green pillars against the bright brown floor. The worst part was past as the slope lessened. The hemlocks grew more thick and mysterious as he neared the crest of the mountain, their rough tangled limbs upholding wings of ancient green. Young hemlocks grew among their sires, filling air and ground with thick deep green. Forest smiled. This was his favorite place. He followed a sort of trail, made by the fall, perhaps, of some broken pine; rotted logs all thick with bright green moss paved it, at any rate. An occasional white pine or oak reared itself among the old hemlocks. The green limbs drew close about him like feathered hands. He turned a curve and came out at last into the place he sought. In a glade where the old green hemlocks drew aside, an incredible white pine stood. Four twisted trunks, spiked with long-dead branches, rose in all different angles; one or two large limbs joined them, jutting to the sides. The stump and moldering logs of another pine lay about it, and the interrupted pillars of kinked old hemlock and the ragged cloaks of the newer ones beneath shrouded the glade in a mystery and beauty of green. Forest leaned against the ancient pine and lost himself in wandering thought, gazing at the forest. This glade was a strange place. There was always a sort of feeling about it, an atmosphere the old green trees exuded, so to speak. It was weakest on sunny days. Strongest on grey ones. Like today. An atmosphere of mystery. If he had been raised on fairy stories Forest might have fancied this a place they would choose, but his parents being Baptist disliked magic and told him stories about Sherriff Honest and Deputy Truthful (that would be his mom) or Captain Kirk and the Cleons (his dad, definitely) and so fairy stories were a thing acquired in later years, accepted as charming tales rather than part of a child’s reality. His strange mind was free of such subconscious stereotypes as a result: not something he always liked. Free, perhaps, to see what was really there. He wondered, as he gazed at the green forest. What was there? What might have walked here in the times before man? Perhaps, when he turned around, he might be gifted with a glance, a glimpse of what had been, of what had haunted lake and hill since first this place was carved out of the ground. Wonder and soft anticipation grew in him, as he imagined turning to meet the eyes of some tall and ancient being of earth and stone and tree. Slowly he turned. “Hello, Forest.” said a man standing beneath the shadow of the hemlocks. Forest gazed in blank letdown. Ordinary life had caught up and entered even this mysterious grove. “I thought.” he said. “Yes, I can see.” the man in the brown leather coat answered. “Reality hits, I call it. Even if I had been the sort of being you expected, it would have been a letdown. Such people never look the way you think they would.” His voice was different than it had been in the library. For the life of him Forest could not figure out what it was. The tone, grave and considerate, underlaid with a strange kind humor, was the same. The quiet low voice was the same. Maybe it was because he stood in the mysterious forest, where even usual things took on subtle and new meanings. “They’re here?” said Forest. The strange man chuckled. “Most children would have said, ‘Are they real?’ You and I need no such questions. We know better.” He fell silent, and neither spoke for a time. Forest felt, in this old forest and with this unusual man, a sense of peace, of kinhome. He and the man in brown knew. They didn’t need to ask. “Been a long time since I last stood here.” the stranger said, gazing toward the lake. A few sparkles of grey-white were visible between boles in that direction, and save for the infrequent rubbery hiss of a car passing far below they might have been removed from all civilized lands, in some forgotten place between whens, gazing out upon the ancient lake that was. “Yep, a long time.” “How long?” Forest said. “Oh, you’d be surprised,” the other answered with a warm chuckle. “Last I was here, that island of yours really was an island. Your house wasn’t there. In fact, most of the houses weren’t, either. They’d just carved out the shore road. Great farms covered Ward’s Hill, and Spencer Hill was all open, not just the crown. The hills had names back then.” “Where’s Ward’s Hill?” “Right there.” said the man in brown, pointing to a place where an oak interrupted the hemlocks. In the gap, through the leaves and branches, a rising hill could be made out the peak low but definite. Forest was pretty sure it was the hill above Bachelor School, the one Pratt St climbed. The man in brown was not pointing toward it, however, but to the left, where pines marked the high place above Summer Rock. “That?” said Forest. “I didn’t know it had one.” “Nobody does, these days.” the man said sadly. “Even the old fellows who lived here all their lives have never taken it into their heads to wonder if the heights have names upon their brows. I ask the men outside the Y: ‘Where is Cobble Hill? Where is Pond Hill?’ They give me a blank stare and go on gabbing of the Yankees. I ask the men in the Coffee Corner, ‘Where is Street Hill? Do you know of Case Mt?’ They shrug their grease-stained shoulders and go back to drinking beer. The only one who knew those names was a young fellow picking cans.” “What’s picking cans?” “Picking them up.” replied the man in brown leather. “To cash them at Super Stupor. Each one’s worth a nickel, Forest.” “You mean, like the tramps and homeless people?” “Many people have homes and still need money?” he answered. “As did Ronnie Wendy. And he only knew the names because he studied the town annals—not even the library historian could tell him the names of the Nine Hills of Winsted.” “But what happened to their names?” “No tradition, my lad.” said the man. “Old folks died childless, or young folks moved away. Homes were sold. Families went extinct. Half the houses of the proud white men are now inhabited by Hispanics and blacks who neither know nor care to know about the hills and homes around them; they are not native here, they are strangers, and Winsted is a city now. Yet still the stars look down on Winsted, though none look up to them.” Silence fell between them for a time as the two unlikely friends stared out upon the hemlock forest, each in his own strange thoughts. “What is your name, sir?” said Forest suddenly. An odd smile crossed the man’s face. “I have names, aye; but to speak them aloud before it is time would be unwise, so close to the Big Island.” “What’s wrong with it?” “Does your island have a name, Forest?” Startled, Forest looked up. “Um, no, my dad used to call it ‘Little Island’ and the other one ‘Big Island’. I call it Home Island, sometimes. I thought about Pine Island, but that didn’t.” Didn’t fit, '' he completed in his head. “Small wonder.” said the Man in Brown. “When I knew it it had many trees—chestnut, mostly, and oak, in fact one of those oaks is still there—but only a couple small hemlocks. No, but back then it had a name of its’ own, only remembered now on lake maps.” “What is its’ name?” said Forest. He felt short of breath, somehow, as if a great secret was about to be exposed. “It is Wintergreen Island.” said the man in the brown coat. “The island across from it is Club Island, from the old ladies’ club that once stood there, and Russel’s Island, from its’ subsequent owner, long now passed into the shadows. The two islands are in opposition, and ever shall be; one named after a plant of the earth, the other named after passing things, a club soon gone, a man soon dead. And now one of them is home to the Wood of the Road, while the other is fastened to the land and no more a true island; and he that dwells there, he is not true either.” “What is he, then?” The face of the man in brown seemed suddenly very old, drawn and grim. “Do not ask.” he said. “It is not good to speak of him and his like, not now, not with the Hallowed Even so near. On another day, if the Road allows, I will tell you of him; but not today.” “The Road?” said Forest. The other looked at him, long and solemnly. “Aye, the Road.” he said. “We have talked well, Forest of Wintergreen Island. I pray all such may go likewise.” Forest looked at him with a grave, puzzled expression. The man in brown did not return it; somehow, during the last part of the conversation he had become farther off, and now, thirty feet away, he lifted his hand, inclined his head and slipped into the hemlocks. He moved so softly it was as if he had faded into them. Forest remained, staring after him, for a long time. Tuesday came. Forest called home and left a message for Mom that he was going to be at the library looking up something. It was easy to evade the school bus and walk…or so he had thought. It turned out Winsted was wider than he had expected. Or he was just tired. At any rate, when he got to the library he found he had been walking for nearly an hour. The sun was near the horizon even though it was only 3:30 or so, for November was only a few days away and cold winds blew over Winsted. He was just glad to sit down. Upstairs the Library Gang was hanging out and chattering around one or two of the computers. A cubicle at the far side was empty and Forest scooted into it. He clicked “Internet Explorer”, the funny blue E with the swirl through it, and when the green Beardsley home page came up, he clicked on the search engine. For a moment he paused, fingers on the keyboard. Then quickly, using one finger as always, he typed in the little box a single word. ''Arheled '' A younger girl of about 11 passed him and ensconced herself in the cubicle on his left, by the window. She had light brown hair, he noticed; well, a sort of gold-brown-pale, actually. Some would call it dirty blond. He hated that term. She had grave grey eyes and a small shrewd face with a continuous twinkle in it. He heard her murmering something to herself in a monotone chant, some kind of rhyme. He hit the ENTER key. '' “Hammers and urns, say the bells of 1st Church….” the girl hummed, rather to the tune of Frodo’s inn-song in the cartoon Lord of the Rings. A list of entries appeared on the reloading screen. He gazed in disbelief. Some chemical combination bore an Arheled '' tag….''Arheled was the name of some obscure germ…..Arheled in a list of rare materials for an RPG game….. '' “When did they close it? say the bells of Methodist’s….” Forest spoke before he was aware of it. “They closed the Road.” The girl spun her head, a little startled. He glanced up and their eyes met. “What did you say?” she said, a little breathlessly. There was a keen sharp anxiety in her eyes. “Your song.” said Forest, feeling intensely uncomfortable. “When did they close it. What is ‘''it’?” “No, what did you say just now?” “They closed the Road?” “Yes!” she said, quick and sudden. “That was it! I’ve been racking my brains over what did it mean, and you just gave me the answer.” “Yeah, but what was that song you were…” “Oh, that? Some odd man at church told me this funny rhyme about the Five churches of Winsted, and I looked up another song that it was just like but it says here that one’s from England; but anyway I wrote it down and—here.” She thrust a paper at him and Forest stared in dismay at several lines of flowing girly but very sloppy handwriting. “I can’t read your scrawls.” he said. “Hmph. I guess I could have been a bit neater. Oh, all right, I’ll read it to you—“ and she launched into the rhyme. '' “Hammers and urns, say the bells of First Church, '' '' When did they close it? say the bells of Methodist’s, '' '' Smite on the heavens, say the bells of St. Joseph’s, '' '' Till they are broken, say the bells of New Baptist, '' '' Come down and play, say the bells of St. James.” '' “Smite on the heavens….” Forest murmered, “till they are broken….with hammers and urns…” “Yeah, that’s what makes like no sense, I mean what have hammers got to do with Christ Church? Oh, I’m Bell, by the way.” “Bell.” he repeated, a little strangely. “Bell, daughter of Light.” She gave a tinkling laugh. “With no E at the end. My last name really is Light, though. And you?” “I’m Forest.” he said, mustering a stiff smile. “Forest Lake.” “Holy cow,” she said, a little awed. “And I thought my name was good!” “Yeah.” he said, feeling really awkward. Both of them were quiet for a while. “Here it is.” she announced, face turned to her computer. “Oranges and lemons, say the bells of St. Clemens…when will you pay me, bells of Old Bailey…hmph. Nothing in that one…nothing at all.” Forest glanced at his own screen and remembered with a start what he was doing. He clicked on the RPG game. “What are you looking up?” Bell said, leaning back in her chair. Forest didn’t answer. A list of materials and strength points had appeared on his screen, and there was the word he had hunted: '' 5. Arheled + 10. VH (very high) work difficulty. High Glass (high tensile strength and heat resistance) '' The game appeared to be something called The Crimson Pirate. Looking farther down the list, the next entry made his eyes bulge. '' Report errors in transcription, National Archives, Census of Ireland 1911. Original: Cairns, William, 19, male, son. Presbyterian, Co. Antrim, Arheled Apprentice to solicitor, Read and write, single. '' He clicked on it and had a moment of bitter disappointment: the enticing second sentence did not show on the page. But when he clicked SHOW ALL INFO it did. Apparently in 1911 in Ireland a youth named William Cairns had been an “Arheled apprentice”, whatever that meant. The next one was at first promising, a Lord of Rings RPG wiki, but the entry for Arheled '' said exactly the same as the materials sheet, only phrased in normal English. Then back at the search results was something in what had to be Spanish, but was likely again about this weird Arheled glass. Here however it was called '' Cristal Noble. Noble Crystal. “Whoever thought ‘high glass’ was a good translation of that should be in the insane asylum.” muttered Forest. There were two other pages of search results. He went to the second. A rare chain mail waistcoat that could be made from ardarcer, arborang (high steel) or arheled. Magic materials listed Arheled High Glass, Celeb silver and several other Elvish names for metals. He recognized galvorn with a smile—that was from the Silmarillion. Then something in Italian describing arheled as vetro superior argento. Argent he knew was the heraldic word for silver. Vetro had something to do with glass or crystal. Superior silver-crystal. This got more and more interesting. And that was it. Forest got up dispiritedly. He could call now to see if Mom was back…or he could look for a really good book or two and call later. Trying to decide which, he walked out the right-hand exit of the youth room. The left one opened on the balcony and the front stair, and a school-type door shut off the balcony from the second-story corridor, into which the right-hand exit opened. There were bathroom (locked—you needed a key), the elevator, the genealogy room, and a few intriguing twisting dead-ends with locked doors. There was also a door to the children’s room down a few steps, and past it a door to the back staircase, where Forest was heading. A tall young man was coming out of the genealogy room in a quick rushing stride, stooped forward, eyes gleaming abstractly. He almost ran into Forest, and both of them started, staggering back, staring at each other. “You!” '' the sharp-faced man gasped. Forest found it hard to breathe. He stared. The face was the same. The red-bronze hair. Even the voice. He opened his mouth and made himself speak. '' “Ronmond.” '' he said. “That—isn’t—my name.” said the other. He too was staring as if at a ghost. “You—your name is Forest?” Forest nodded. “I saw you.” Ronmond said. His voice had become almost a whisper. “At the—“ “At the house of Arheled.” said Forest. “Above the Silver Falls.” the other affirmed. “Um—I suppose I might as well introduce myself; I’m Ronnie Wendy. You’re—Forest?” “Forest Lake.” “Tell me, Forest…''what is the Road? And why did Arheled grow angry when I asked him?” “Because they closed it.” “Did they.” said Ronnie. “When, I wonder indeed. Smite on the heavens, say the bells of St. Joseph’s. I begin to suspect that I never shall know.” “I like not knowing.” Forest replied. “It’s so—“ Again he could not say what he wanted. '' So mystical and powerful that way, '' was what was in his mind. “It is.” Ronnie nodded somberly. “Well, I think I’d better get going. Still got errands to run. We will see each other again—I don’t know how or why, but we’re part of something.” “Or caught in it.” said Forest. But Ronnie was already going down the stairs and nobody heard him.